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‘Women are evil, my children: because they have no power or strength to stand against man, they use wiles and try to ensnare him by their charms; and man, whom woman cannot subdue by strength, she subdues by guile.’ – Testament of Reuben: V, 1-2, 5

*

“I miss being that young,” she says, “I miss the innocence, the great expectations, and the blind faith that the world was our oyster.”

She’s lying across the daybed, staring at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette. There’s something about the way veils of smoke fills a room that makes me feel at ease, and there’s something about her voice that makes me feel at home, wherever we are. I think it’s the musicality of it; if I close my eyes when she speaks, I can picture her surrounded by an orchestra, musicians dressed in black and white, all eyes on her, the conductor. Her stories are always incredible, always building up to a violent crescendo, English horns, trumpets, saxophones, cellos and violas, cymbals and bass drum; it makes me want to dance.

Tonight our soundtrack is Amanda Palmer, Have To Drive ; the song is on repeat, loud, while we reminisce about our youth and the bad boy we both had a crush on. She talks about him with such affection, as if he had been the love of her life, although we both know he wasn’t. “I adored his accent, the way he pronounced my name; Eeeva, Eeevaaa,” she says, with exaggerated pronunciation; “he was so passionate, so… impatient.” She smiles, dreamily. “I remember feeding him apples,” she says, “ripe, succulent apples, and licking the juice dripping from his lips...”

That must have been before, before the knowledge, before the books, devoured secretly, under the covers; Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller and the hungry sensation that there was something out there she was missing, before the restlessness and the nightly walks through the city, before innocence was dragged out of her, beaten up and left to rot like an overripe apple. “Yes,” she says, turning away to put out her cigarette; “it was before all of that.”

It’s two in the morning, I’m discretely yawning but she seems to be wide-awake, ever the insomniac. I recall how she used to play her cello at night, mostly Bach, dark, disturbing music; sharing a residence with her was a nightmare. “Do you think the playing was worse than when I had lovers over?” she asks with a chuckle. “When you had lovers over, I preferred to spend the night elsewhere,” I reply, wryly. She laughs, a deep, smoky laughter. “So tell me, are you still hung up on that guy?” she asks. “Which one?” I reply. She sees right through my attempt to avoid her question. “You know which one,” she says, pouring herself another drink. I get up to put on a different record, avoiding her scrutinizing gaze. Her low voice hits my back as I leave the room, like the flick of a whip: “You always were a coward, Lilith.”

It’s easy to feel intimidated by her. She’s beautiful, proud and voluptuous, men love her, women hate her. I am somewhere in between, I can never decide whether I love to hate her or hate myself for admiring her so much, for comparing myself to her. She’s the seductress, while I’m the hopelessly obstinate, willful creature who has never been able to submit to anyone. “Please don’t call me a coward,” I say, “you know that’s not true.” She shrugs and empties her glass, lights another cigarette. “You know,” I say to get back at her; “in a way you remind me of him.” She looks amused. “Yeah,” I continue; “your excessive drinking, your cruel sarcasms, your chain-smoking, heck, even your voice.” She smiles, calmly; she knows I’m taking my contempt for him out on her, she knows I still love him, reluctantly, deep inside, yes, she sees right through me.

Self-satisfied, she leans back against the cushions. “We had fun back then, though, didn’t we?” she says. God, we had fun. We didn’t sleep for years. But that was before; before the bruises and the blows, before we learned (the hard way) how to differentiate between a good man and a devil. Before we both fell in love with the same man – again – and she recklessly seduced him while I was away. Later, he told me he slept with her to get back at me, and later yet, he told me he continued to sleep with her because she made him feel like a king in bed.

“He wasn’t worth our affection, you know,” she says. “I know,” I say. She looks at me, suddenly serious. “He always gave the impression that I was just a temporary replacement, sort of a consolation prize,” she says; “I wish I had been brave enough to just pick up and leave, like you did, instead of clinging to him until it was too late to withdraw gracefully.” I nod, slowly: “I know.” We’re both silent for a while, then she says: “I don’t think he ever stopped loving you.”